


Blood Presented

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: And Robert Doesn't Mind, But James Has Decided To Keep Him, Canon Compliant, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Magic, Maybe Brothers Maybe Not, Mental Instability, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-10 10:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10435845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Robert doesn't understand Mr. Delaney, but he supposes that's alright. No one else does, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

Mr. Delaney is a big, dark man. Not like a blackamoor, like the rumors say he might be, but dark in spirit. His eyes, the way he fits into the shadows— the man is haunted, by demons with white-painted faces and somber eyes.

 

Robert does his best not to look at them for too long, by focusing on Mr. Delaney himself, instead. Their hands grasp at the edges of his coat, the brim of his hat, and it’s scary, really, to watch and see the man so unbothered.

 

"What do you see?" Mr. Delaney asks when he catches him looking.

 

Robert never answers.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Something pulls Mr. Delaney under the water, something with long, dark hair and grasping hands. Robert thinks he ought to help, but he’s little, and Mr. Delaney’s big, and he’s bloody well petrified by the creatures.

 

He’s never seen them attack anyone before.

 

Mr. Delaney comes up before Robert can think to call for help, breathing deep, gasping breaths and looking shaken. When he starts to turn, Robert does the reasonable thing and bolts— he can’t imagine Mr. Delaney will be happy with him spying.

 

Later, when they’re preparing to move the powder, Mr. Delaney catches him and pulls him close, leaning slightly so his face is inches from Robert’s and he can smell the liquor.

 

"I saw you," he says, grip tight in Robert’s shirt. "And you saw something at the pond. What did you see?"

 

"Nothing." Robert feels like he might piss himself, but he pinches his lips and meets Mr. Delaney’s eyes, because fear doesn’t do anything for Mr. Delaney.

 

He stares for a moment, assessing, before nodding to himself and moving even closer.

 

"I strongly suggest you continue to see nothing," he says, and Robert nods obediently. Mr. Delaney stares a moment more, then reaches out to pull the black cloth up over Robert’s nose. Surprised, Robert lets him, eyelashes fluttering when gloved hands come to close to his eyes.

 

Mr. Delaney chuckles, patting him on the shoulder before moving to check on the rest of the carriage.

 

Robert’s never heard him chuckle before, never really thought he was capable of it. Though it may not have been a particularly cheerful noise, he finds he rather likes it, anyway.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Robert stays in the coffin for the rest of the journey, just in case. It’s cramped, dark, and the smell of gunpowder is overwhelming in the little wooden box, and the memory of Mr. Cholmondeley’s numerous warnings play in his head over and over again. If they hit a bump, Robert’s surely dead. The whole carriage will explode and he will be engulfed in flames.

 

Robert very pointedly doesn’t think about that. Instead, he thinks about Mr. Delaney’s warning.

 

It rang funny in Robert’s ears.  _ I strongly suggest you continue to see nothing. _ Does Mr. Delaney see those ghosts too?

 

That’s a stupid question, Robert thinks to himself. Even if he didn’t see them, he must know they’re there. One of them tried to drown him, for God’s sake. They wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t at least a little bit aware of them.

 

Robert shudders at the thought. Maybe Mr. Delaney was warning him against letting those ghosts know he saw them. Maybe if they know, they might cling to him, too.

 

He doesn’t want that, and it seems Mr. Delaney doesn’t want that, either.

 

Before Robert can think too hard on the subject, the carriage rolls to a stop and someone opens the coffin. Mr. Delaney’s eyes peer curiously at him from under the brim of his hat.

 

"Out. Now," he orders. "Unless you think the Americans wouldn’t mind an extra bit of cannon fodder for their ships."

 

Robert nods, thankful to be free, and reaches out to grip Mr. Delaney’s jacket when the man catches him around the middle and lifts him out. He squeezes Robert tightly, just for a moment, before setting him down and replacing the door.

 

Perhaps that says something about his character, the unusual softness he has afforded Robert these last few hours. He isn’t kind, not like normal people, but perhaps his awkward handling of Robert is a kindness of its own.

 

The Americans come and go, and soon they’re headed back for the windmill, back home. Mr. Delaney sits where the coffins were, and doesn’t seem to mind when Robert sits beside him, so that’s where he stays, until the sounds of London slip away and sleep drags Robert’s eyes shut.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Robert wakes up suddenly, eyes flying open and heart racing in his chest. His fingers tighten in the heavy fabric of Mr. Delaney’s coat. It seems sometime between Robert’s falling asleep and now, Mr. Delaney had tucked him under the flap of his coat, settling Robert’s head against his chest.

 

"What’s wrong?" he asks.

 

Robert swallows.

 

"I dreamt my father went to a priest," he says, eyes firmly on the bend in Mr. Delaney’s knee. "I dreamt the priest spoke to an old man."

 

Mr. Delaney hums.

 

"Anything else?" he prompts.

 

"I…" Robert pauses. "I dreamt you killed my father."

 

Though he can’t see it, he knows that Mr. Delaney’s nodded, that little affirmation that seems to encompass all things past, present, and future.

 

"Go back to sleep, Robert," he says, warm hand pressing gently into his side.

 

Robert nods, curling closer into Mr. Delaney’s side and squeezing his eyes shut. He will go home and tell his father he loves him, because tomorrow, he will be dead, and his heart will be in Mr. Delaney’s hands.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Cholmondeley takes him to the Delaney house when it becomes clear that his father isn’t coming home. Miss Bow is kind to him, though Brace seems irritated by his presence. That doesn’t stop him from sending Robert to do the work he loathes, however, and sure enough, the moment Mr. Delaney happens to be home around mealtime, Robert is sent up with a tray and instructions to not make a nuisance of himself.

 

There is a new ghost, now, a pretty girl with negro blood. She watches Robert impassively from over Mr. Delaney’s shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around his neck and chin resting on her hand. There is a familiarity in the way she drapes herself over Mr. Delaney, warmth where none of the other ghosts seem to have it. It makes her less frightening, enough so that Robert tries a smile before he remembers Mr. Delaney’s advice and returns his focus to his face.

 

_ I strongly suggest you continue to see nothing. _

 

Mr. Delaney always looks like he can see right through whoever was silly enough to catch his attention. While Robert isn’t scared of that, exactly, he doesn’t like it, either, and moves to make his escape.

 

_ "Ah-ah." _

 

Robert stops, turning slowly to face Mr. Delaney. The man gestures for him to come closer, and he obeys.

 

"… I have a use for you."

 

Mr. Delaney holds out a shiny, silver key. The triumph that floods Robert’s veins when he sees is disproportionate to the task, but Mr. Delaney doesn’t trust anyone, and the thought that he might trust Robert with a task he’s given no other, with a key that probably unlocks treasure chests full of African diamonds—

 

Robert’s fingers close on empty air. Uncertain, he looks at Mr. Delaney. His face is impassive, but there’s the slightest glint in his eye, something an awful lot like… humor.

 

Robert tries again, but Mr. Delaney keeps the key out of reach. He’s  _ playing _ , of all things, the same way Robert’s played with the barn cats or Mrs. Rundy’s new baby. If it were anyone else, Robert would perhaps be annoyed with the treatment, but Mr. Delaney is odd, and likely hasn’t had much to do with children before Robert.

 

The key is cool under his fingers when Mr. Delaney finally lets him catch it, testing his grip with a slight tug.

 

"For the safe," he tells him.  _ "Mhmm?" _

 

Robert nods, fighting the slight smile that wants to curve his mouth, and Mr. Delaney lets go.

 

"Go." The man shoos him out, turning back to his papers, but it doesn’t stop the warmth that’s burrowed its way under Robert’s skin as he tucks the key into the good pocket of his jacket. 

 

He’ll keep it safe for Mr. Delaney.


	2. Chapter 2

Late at night, when the rest of the house is feigning sleep, Robert listens to Mr. Delaney move around the attic. Sometimes he talks, in English or in a strange language Robert doesn’t know, sometimes he shouts, sometimes he shatters bottles against the walls.

 

Sometimes, he sings.

 

Robert likes it best when he sings. He didn’t know anybody who sang before, save for a few surly nuns at St. Mary’s, and Mr. Delaney’s rather good at it, when he wants to be. He sings old songs, children’s songs, and Robert catches himself humming them to himself sometimes, whispering the words he knows as he peels potatoes or scrubs pots.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Delaney catches him by the shoulder on his way upstairs one Sunday.

 

"When you’re done in the kitchens, come upstairs," he murmurs. "I have another use for you,  _ mhmm." _

 

"Yes, sir."

 

The man grunts at Robert and lets him go, stomping up the steps in his usual way.

 

"What did he ask of ye, boy?"

 

Robert looks up. Brace’s eyes are full of heartbroken worry, perhaps a little disgust.

 

"He asked for me to go to his rooms once I’m finished," he says.

 

Brace’s lips pinch. He glances up the stairs, then shifts closer.

 

"If he asks anything unnatural of ye, just scream," Brace whispers. "I’ll come for ye."

 

Robert nods. He’s uncertain what Brace might mean by unnatural, but the man’s kind enough to worry, which is something— though, for some reason, Robert isn’t afraid at all. Mr. Delaney’s odd, but he seems to like Robert, the same way he likes Miss Bow and Godders, whoever that might be.

 

"I will, Brace," he says. "Promise."

 

Brace nods and turns back to his work, so Robert goes back to his. They make short work of the kitchen, and with a final, uncertain nod, Brace sends him upstairs.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Delaney doesn’t seem to register his presence for the first hour, settled in front of the fire in only his longshirt. Robert takes it as another one of Mr. Delaney’s oddities, taking a seat in the little chair by Mr. Delaney’s desk while he waits for the man to notice him.

 

"You sing my songs," Mr. Delaney says finally, tossing a few papers into the fire. "Why?"

 

Robert blinks.

 

"I like them," he offers hesitantly. "I know them,  _ mhmm." _

 

His master hums thoughtfully, then shifts to make space beside the fire.

 

"Sit," he orders. "I’ll teach you what they mean. To me.  _ Mhmm?" _

 

Robert nods and slides off the chair, pausing before tugging off his shoes and mimicking Mr. Delaney’s cross-legged position. When he looks up, the man is staring, an odd look in his eye. Robert stares back, patient. One must be patient when in the presence of Mr. Delaney.

 

"Alright, then," he mutters. "Let’s see what you know, then. Oranges and lemons…"

 

He and Mr. Delaney sing all night, pausing when Mr. Delaney feels he needs to explain something. When his eyes start to droop, he’s passed a bottle of something strong. He drinks, choking as it burns its way down his throat, and Mr. Delaney chuckles before taking the bottle back, ruffling his hair before beginning again.

 

Robert doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he must have, because he wakes up in his bed the next morning, blankets tucked tight around him.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Delaney is in the Tower, and Robert has a job to do. He doesn’t have time for grown-up dithering, not even Mr. Cholmondeley’s.

 

He stands outside the Tower and sings, and prays to whatever spirit that watches over his master.

 

It’s all he could do, and everything that was asked of him.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Cholmondeley is hurt, is probably dying. Miss Bow’s hurt, too, and Miss Helga’s dead.

 

Robert is scared for them, is scared because Helga’s standing next to her body as Mr. Delaney surveys the damage, painted face and bullring and all. The girl that follows Mr. Delaney stands beside her, their hands clasped together.

 

Robert doesn’t want to look, so he leaves, settling himself on the forecastle to watch the river disappear into the ocean and London give way to clear, blue skies.

 

Robert never thought he’d get to see this.

 

Nobody bothers him, and eventually, darkness comes. The moon shines, the stars twinkle, and the air grows cool and sharp, biting through his jacket. He doesn’t want to go, though, to move below deck and lose the sky, so he deals with it, rubbing warmth back into his shoulders and pressing his back closer into wood of the deck.

 

"Still out here, then?"

 

Robert looks up into Atticus’ bandaged face. He shrugs and turns back to the stars.

 

"I know that look," Atticus says, flopping down onto the deck beside him. "You’re completely smitten, ain’t ya? Completely  _ enamored." _

 

Robert knows what  _ enamored _ means, Miss Bow taught him. He nods.

 

Atticus sighs.

 

"I remember that feeling," he says wistfully. "The first time I went out, I thought I’d see the whole world— and I saw a good bit of it. I get that feeling still, you know, but… it was best that first time. Strongest."

 

"Are you bothering that boy, Atticus?" Mr. Delaney rumbles from somewhere behind them.

 

Atticus turns, grinning.

 

"Just enjoying a night of peace in the open water," he says. "Rememberin’, you know."

 

Mr. Delaney cocks his head.

 

"Remembering what,  _ hmm?" _

 

"You know." Atticus gestures at the water. "This. All of this. It’s the boy’s first time at sea, after all."

 

"I like it," Robert offers when Mr. Delaney looks at him.  _ "Mhmm." _

 

Atticus stiffens, head whipping around to look at Robert.

 

"What was that?" he asks.

 

"I like it," Robert repeats, frowning slightly. "The sky’s never seemed so big."

 

Atticus stares a moment longer, then relaxes, laughing.

 

"For a moment there, James, he sounded like you," he says, looking up at Mr. Delaney.

 

He doesn’t smile back.

 

"Up," he orders, nudging Robert with his foot. "Good little boys go to bed at a decent hour, don’t they?"

 

Robert grunts.

 

"But—"

 

"No buts," Mr. Delaney says. "It’s time for me to sleep, and as you’ll be sharing with me until either Mr. Cholmondeley or Lorna expires, I’d thank you not to wake me up."

 

Robert sighs and pushes himself to his feet.

 

"You’re on night watch, Atticus," Mr. Delaney says, settling a hand on Robert’s shoulder.

 

"Yes, sir." Atticus glances at Robert. "I’ll teach you the stars sometime, eh, Robby? When James doesn’t feel like sleeping."

 

Robert nods.

 

"I’d like that,  _ mhmm." _

 

Atticus twitches at the noise, then smiles.

 

"'Night, then."

 

"Good night," Robert says. Mr. Delaney’s grip tightens on his shoulder before he leads him below deck, into the Captain’s cabin.

 

"Shoes and jacket off," he orders, kicking off his boots as he speaks. "Slops too— you’ll need to keep those as clean as you can manage."

 

Robert does as he’s told, stripping down until all he has is his too-big shirt hanging off his shoulders.

 

"Bit long," Mr. Delaney remarks, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "Good. Space to grow,  _ mhmm." _

 

Robert nods, dithering awkwardly before shrugging and going to sit beside Mr. Delaney.

 

"Are you actually going to sleep, Mr. Delaney?" he asks. "You never did before."

 

_ "Huh. _ Didn’t really have the time before." Mr. Delaney arches an eyebrow. "Busy."

 

_ "Hm." _

 

Delaney stares, then shakes his head.

 

"Lay down, now," he says, settling down onto the pillows. "Sleep."

 

Robert does, curling up into the space not taken up by Mr. Delaney’s mass. The mattress is unusually soft— a mark of the company, he supposes— and the blanket is warm when Mr. Delaney pulls it up over his shoulders.

 

"Good night," he offers quietly, staring at the white ghosts that have settled over Mr. Delaney’s bed. Their eyes glow as they gaze back at him, unnerving. Still, better to be polite.

 

"Sleep, boy. The ghosts aren’t here to bother you."

 

Robert supposes not, so he closes his eyes and tries to relax. Eventually, Mr. Delaney’s snores pierce the air— a funny thing. For a man so quiet, he’s loud when he sleeps.

 

It’s another noise to add to Robert’s growing lexicon of Delaney facts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in end notes.

Life on a ship is hard, but Robert’s used to that. He learns quickly— how to read the stars from eager Atticus, how to tie sailor’s knots from Miss Godfrey, how to climb the ratlines under the watchful eye of Mr. Delaney. It’s scary, sometimes, but it’s fun, too. Robert likes it, likes being useful, and keeps every scrap of knowledge he’s learned from these men under his hat along with his letters and the ingredients necessary for the manufacturing of gunpowder.

 

Mr. Cholmondeley is, in a miraculous turn of events, doing better, possibly due to whatever strange magic Mr. Delaney worked in their cabin in the dark of true night. Robert doesn’t ask him to teach him magic, the way he knows the little girl ghost did, but he listens, mouthing the shapes of the strange words until he can find meaning of them. Alongside that, Miss Godfrey’s taken to teaching him French, and when Miss Bow— Lorna, as she wishes for him to call her now— feels up to it, she teaches him what Gaelic she can remember.

 

Mr. Delaney hasn’t said anything against these new lessons, so Robert supposes he doesn’t mind it.

 

Helga’s ghost gives him lessons, too, in her own way. She never speaks directly to him, but when he can’t sleep at night, he hears her voice, and she tells stories of travelers and sailors who couldn’t pay for the services of her girls. The little girl— Winter, Robert thinks her name is— tells stories too, sometimes. Hers are more romantic, telling of knights and princesses and pirate kings. 

 

He likes her stories better.

 

He does his best not to talk to them, though, is scared what might happen if Mr. Delaney’s other ghosts take notice of him. The big black man, for instance, frightens Robert. When he appears at night, standing over Mr. Delaney’s head, Robert rolls deeper into his master’s side, fingers tightening in his shirt until his nails cut into Mr. Delaney’s skin. That usually wakes him, and if Robert pretends he’s sleeping, Mr. Delaney will shoo the ghost away.

 

Usually, he’ll tell Robert to go back to sleep when he’s finished. Robert supposes he’s not that good at pretending.

 

The black-haired women who follow Mr. Delaney are nearly just as bad. The younger one, at least, is quiet in her contemplation of him, though sometimes her gaze turns a bit too wild, a bit too dark. The older one likes to laugh, likes to cackle whenever he stands too close to the rails. She likes to crowd him when he does, so Robert usually tries to drag him away before he can stand for too long. Mr. Delaney seems to know what he’s doing, most of the time, but he doesn’t fight him, and for that, he’s grateful.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Delaney has gone mad again. Well, madder. He does that, sometimes, when he’s drunk, or when he’s afraid.

 

He’s drunk, this time. And he has a knife.

 

Again, this is not unusual, except he’s swinging the knife at the ghosts that no one but Robert can see, passing harmlessly through their blurred forms as he shouts in a nonsensical mix of English and African. Nobody is bothered by this, really, until he one stumbling attack nearly takes off Miss Godfrey’s hand.

 

“James!” Lorna cries as Miss Godfrey scrambles away. “James, stop, no one’s there!”

 

“Ge akyiri, ahyeawo,” he slurs, turning sightless eyes on her as she attempts to approach him. “Ge akyiri!”

 

He slashes his blade in her direction, catching it on her dress and tearing it. She stumbles back as Atticus leaps forward, brandishing his own blade.

 

“Gyae!”

 

Everyone on deck freezes, including Mr. Delaney. They all turn to look at Robert, who suddenly feels very, very small.

 

His feelings don’t matter, though, so he takes a deep breath and tries again.

 

“Gyae,” he repeats, stepping forward. “Ma me sekan.”

 

He holds out a hand. Mr. Delaney ignores it.

 

“E ka?” he asks, eyes sharp even through the the haze of drink.

 

“Aane,” Robert says. “Ketewa.”

 

Robert knows his grasp of the language is minimal, and he supposes he said something funny, because Mr. Delaney throws back his head and laughs— a proper, gleeful laugh.

 

“E ka,” he says, mirthful. “E ka Twi.”

 

“Ketewa,” Robert repeats. “Ma me sekan.”

 

Mr. Delaney is smiling, so pleased by this revelation that he obeys Robert’s request, placing the knife hilt-first in Robert’s hand.

 

“Me da wo ase,” he says, tucking the knife into his pocket. “Mpa, seisei.” He points to the door that leads below deck. “Please?”

 

Mr. Delaney chuckles again, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

 

“E ka,” he says again. “Nko.”

 

“Aane,  _ Mhmm,”  _ Robert agrees. “Mpa seisei.”

 

Mr. Delaney nods, patting him hard on the shoulder before making his way towards the steps.

 

The deck is dead silent for a good minute after that.

 

“The boy takes after his father, it seems,” Mr. Cholmondeley finally says, voice dry. “How unexpected.”

 

“You did fantastic, dear,” Lorna says, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tightly. “Don’t ever do that again.”

 

“Yeah, Robby.” Atticus looks pale. “He’s dangerous when he gets like that.”

 

Robert shrugs. He knows that very well.

 

“I’m going to go to bed, now,” he says. “Make sure Mr. Delaney doesn’t hurt himself.”

 

Lorna blinks.

 

“Robert, I don’t think that’s such a good idea—”

 

“I’ve got to make sure he’s alright,” Robert says firmly. “And besides, all the best pillows are in there.”

 

“I knew it,” Mr. Cholmondeley mutters as Robert pulls away.

 

“Leave the door open,” Lorna calls after him. “Just in case you need help, alright?”

 

Robert grunts and disappears below, out of sight.

 

“He’s becoming more and more like James every day,” Godfrey murmurs, fan fluttering nervously. “He won’t be talking soon, if this keeps up.”

 

“And he’ll be summoning demons,” Atticus adds darkly.

 

Lorna purses her lips.

 

“Well, there’s nothing to be done about it,” she says. “James keeps Robert close, nowadays.”

 

“More like the other way ‘round,” Pearl says. “Little Robby keeps an eye out for his Daddy, haven’t you noticed? Never lets him too close to the rails.”

 

Of course Lorna’s noticed. They’ve all noticed.

 

Lorna’s frightened by it.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Delaney’s sound asleep by the time Robert comes down, one boot still on. Smiling, he pulls it off and shoves at Mr. Delaney’s side until he can fit on the bed before stripping himself. If his head doesn’t feel like a melon tomorrow, Robert doesn’t know a thing about drunks.

 

Mr. Delaney snuffles a bit when Robert lays down beside him, arm shifting reflexively to wrap around his shoulders. Robert’s long since gotten used to the close proximity, has long since realized that Mr. Delaney doesn’t mind if he touches him, and throws an arm over his stomach because it’s comfortable that way.

 

He is not expecting the thin, ice cold arm that slides into place beside his.

 

“Thanks for taking care of ‘im,” Winter whispers from Mr. Delaney’s other side. “James needs a minder, sometimes, to keep from going all the way mad.”

 

Robert nods silently, eyes squeezing shut against Winter’s odd, glowing shape.

 

_ Continue to see nothing.  _ That’s his motto, and he’s sticking to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ge akyiri ahyeawo- get back, prostitute/whore  
> Gyae- stop  
> Ma me sekan- Give me the knife  
> E ka- You speak?  
> Aane- yes  
> Ketewa- Little/A little  
> Me da wo ase- thank you  
> Mpa- bed  
> Seisei- now  
> Nko- alone (on your own)
> 
> Seeing as I got these translations from a somewhat limited source, there is probably no conjugation. For the purposes of this fic, we're gonna pretend it's because Robert has no grasp of the language and therefore is just working off key words he's picked up, okay? Awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

Robert wakes up with the knowledge that he’s being stared at. Based on the intensity of the gaze, he’s quite certain it’s Mr. Delaney who’s looking at him. He keeps his eyes closed, hoping to feign sleep for just a little bit longer.

 

“You learned my language,” he says. “All by yourself.”

 

Well, there goes that plan.

 

“You speak it a lot,” Robert says, eyes still closed. “Under your breath, or into the fires.”

 

James grunts.

 

“You’re a clever one,” he says. “Too clever.”

 

“Well, I can’t help that,” Robert retorts, opening his eyes to give Mr. Delaney his best unimpressed glare. “I like learning things.”

 

Mr. Delaney’s grip tightens around his shoulders, fingers digging into his arm. There’s something dark in his eyes, something left over from last night.

“Some things are better left unlearned,” he says. “That tongue isn’t for little boys to use to order their betters to bed.”

 

“Someone told me you need minding, sometimes,” Robert answers. “And you were scaring Miss Lorna and Godders,  _ mhmm.” _

 

Mr. Delaney’s lip quirks at Robert’s use of the nickname.

 

“They ought to be scared of me,” he says. “I’m a very bad man.”

 

Robert shrugs, unconcerned.

 

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think you’re just a bit mad.”

 

“You’re stupider than you look.”

 

“Miss Pearl says I look like you.”

 

Mr. Delaney barks out a laugh, rolling onto his back.

 

“I suppose that’s fair enough,” he says. “Well, boy, I’ll tell you this much. Whatever madness I’ve got, it runs in your blood too. You won’t escape this, no,  _ mm-mm.” _

 

Robert’s quite sure it’s already caught up with him, but that isn’t the important thing right now.

 

“Is it true, then?” he asks. “You’re my father?”

 

_ “Hn, _ who knows,” Mr. Delaney says. “You might be the product of an old man’s rutting, or you might be the product of mine. Does it matter?”

 

Robert shrugs and pushes himself up off the bed.

 

“I’ll get you some breakfast, Mr. Delaney,” he says. “I bet your head feels like a mule kicked it.”

 

Mr. Delaney grunts an agreement and shoos him off with a limp hand. Robert goes, scrounging up some hard tack and a mug of sugarless tea. When he comes back, Mr. Delaney’s moved to the floor, a bottle of rum already settled between his bare legs.

 

Robert sets the mug and tack beside him, then turns to go. Mr. Delaney doesn’t care for people watching him eat— he suspects that’s why the man has long since forgone table manners.

 

_ “Ah-ah. _ Stay.”

 

Well, that’s unusual, Robert thinks to himself as he turns back to the older man.

 

“Sit,” Mr. Delaney orders, tapping the floor in front of him. “Eat.”

 

Robert only brought enough for one, but obeys anyway, watching as Mr. Delaney snaps the tack in half and holds out the larger half for him to take. Which he does. Robert suddenly finds himself ravenous, now that food’s being offered, and lucky for him, Mr. Delaney’s disinterest in manners means he can eat with as little care as he likes.

 

“Tonight,” the man starts, watching Robert as he eats. “Tonight I’ll teach you proper,  _ mm? _ I’ll teach you how to speak.”

 

Robert grunts, mouth full, but that’s alright, because Mr. Delaney understands him anyway.

 

“I’ll teach you, or you’ll keep teaching yourself, and you’ll do it wrong,” he says. “And that might lead to trouble. But you’ll keep it to yourself, understand?”

 

Robert swallows. “Yes, Mr. Delaney.  _ Mhmm.” _

 

Mr. Delaney stares at him a moment longer, then nods.

 

“You can use my name, if you like,” he says, pushing the tea within Robert’s reach. “Doesn’t matter much to me.”

 

Robert nods, setting the tack down on his knee to pick up the mug and take a long draught.

 

“If you say so, sir,” he says, setting the mug down again. “But the other grown-ups might look at me oddly if I do.”

 

“Well, there’s half a chance you might be my brother,” Mr. Delaney says, shrugging. “And we Delaneys don’t give a damn if people think us odd. No, we do not.”

 

Robert doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know if there’s anything to say at all, but there’s an odd warmth forming like a fist under his ribs and he finds he doesn’t quite mind it.

 

“Now go. Atticus’ll be wanting you.” Mr. Delaney— no, James, he wants Robert to call him James, elsewise he wouldn’t have brought it up— uncorks his rum with his teeth, spitting the cork before taking a long swig, pausing only to give Robert an expectant look.

 

Robert pushes himself to his feet, then pauses, debating.

 

“What?” James asks. “Go on, shoo.”

 

He doesn’t think it through, but the fist in his chest tells him it’s a good idea, and for once Winter isn’t hanging from the older man’s shoulders (she’s not anywhere at all), so Robert moves, hugging James around the neck. He doesn’t hold on for too long, just a moment, before letting go and straightening, shoving the rest of his tack in his mouth before bolting for the door.

 

If he’d looked back, he’d see the look of utter bemusement on the man’s face, but he doesn’t, so he’ll have to content himself with his imagination.

 

Well, that’s alright.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Pearl is by far a more accomplished cook than Lorna, which all of them are grateful for. Still, she does her part, ladling out bowls of potato soup to the crew gathered around the rough wooden table in the galley. For once, everyone’s there, even James. Particularly James.

 

James is… lighter, today, though she can’t explain how she knows. He still paces the deck and works with his usual, brutal efficiency, silent save for a few barked orders here and grunts of affirmation there— nothing seems outwardly different. Perhaps it’s just Lorna’s own wishful thinking, but something has definitely changed. The very fact that he’s sitting here, settled between Robert and Atticus, is proof of that.

 

Robert, dear Robert. Lorna worries for him. He spends too much time at James’ side, an odd mixture of starry-eyed and deadpan in the face of James’ gruffness. She’s quite sure the boy was afraid of him, not too long ago, but sometime between his coming to the house and their setting sail, it changed. There is no fear in him when he pushes James’ elbow out of the way to make room for Lorna’s ladling, no reaction when James grumbles his displeasure at being pushed.

 

Mr. Cholmondeley is right to say they’re growing more and more similar. Robert, save for his occasional moments of childish wonder or wry observation, is mostly quiet, adopting James’ preference for small, low noises that rumble from his throat rather than actual speech. He’s beginning to mimic some of James’ mannerisms, too. The way he walks, sometimes… if he had a long enough coat, a proper hat, he’d be the man’s shadow.

 

That doesn’t mean he does it all the time. When Atticus tells him seafaring tales or Godfrey says something to him in French, he responds like any normal, happy child with a bit of brains would. When Mr. Cholmondeley tests his memory of chemicals, his face screws up in the sweetest way as he recites paragraphs of information, and he glows with pride when the man tells him he’s done well. 

 

But then, he’ll twitch in such a way, or stretch across the steps leading down into the cabin, and suddenly, he looks exactly like James, nostrils flared and eyes dark with thoughts that Lorna can’t begin to imagine. Sometimes, he’ll look a thousand years old, trapped in a body that hasn’t finished a decade of growing, and Lorna will feel fear, deep and cold in her gut. Sometimes, though, all she’ll be able to feel is amusement.

 

Like right now, for instance.

 

Lorna’s quite sure Robert had a basic grasp of etiquette before they set sail. Now, though, shoulder to shoulder with James, one wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two of them and a pair of dogs. Neither bother with a spoon, slurping loudly from the bowl as broth dribbles down their chins and stains their shirt. Occasionally, one of them will pull away, mouth full of hot potato as they struggle to chew without burning themselves. It’s a silly thing to watch, quite frankly, and even though Lorna knows she probably should scold them for the behavior, she thinks a little bit of silliness is good for the lot of them.

 

Godfrey catches her eyes as she tucks in to her own meal, a shy smile on his lips as he glances at the Delaney boys. She returns it, just a quirk of the corner of her mouth, before turning her eyes on her bowl.

  
Yes, a little bit of silliness is exactly what they need.


	5. Chapter 5

The language moves easily across Robert’s tongue in the secluded safety of James’ rooms. The movements that accompany the words are natural, the rocking, the the dips of his shoulders and the accompanying grunts that say more than any spoken words could.

 

They speak every night, the ghosts circling their bed, frustrated by their lessons.

 

“They don’t understand,” James murmurs, words rumbling deep in his throat. “But they feel its power. Can you see the way they shake?”

 

“Can you always see them?” Robert whispers back.

 

“No.” James shifts, brow furrowing. “Can you?”

 

“I see them so long as they choose to stand with you,” Robert says. “They frighten me.”

 

“So they should.” There’s a pause. “Do you see Winter?”

 

The girl hears her name, that much is clear by the way her eyes flicker up to meet Robert’s.

 

“Yes.” Robert looks away, looks at James instead. “She sleeps with us, sometimes, on your other side. She likes you.”

 

“She was a silly girl.” The words are harsh, but the sorrow is clear in the slant of James’ shoulders.

 

“Her mother stands, too,” Robert says. “She talks of her trade. The black-haired woman in feathers tries to push you overboard. She’s the scariest. Her and the black man.”

 

“My mother,” James says. “She was my mother.”

 

“She wants you dead,” Robert says.

 

“According to Brace, she always did.” James’ lip quirks. “Family’s funny like that.  _ Mhmm.” _

 

Robert frowns, shifting closer into James’ side. Reflexively, James moves his arm to make room for him.

 

“I’m happy you’re not dead,” he says. “I’m happy I met you.”

 

That makes James bark out a bitter laugh and ruffle his hair.

 

“That won’t last long,” he promises. “You’ll come to hate me soon enough, just like everyone else.”

 

“Miss Lorna doesn’t hate you,” Robert says indignantly. “Miss Godfrey doesn’t hate you. She thinks you’re an arse sometimes, but she doesn’t hate you.”

 

“... You know Godders is a man, right?”

 

“Well, she’s wearing a dress and doesn’t seem to mind.” Robert shrugs. “Mollies confuse me.”

 

James snorts.

 

“Well, it doesn’t much matter whether he’s a molly or not, nowadays,” he says. “Nobody to fuck out here.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true.”

 

“What, you know something I don’t, Robby?”

 

Robert shrugs.

 

“Mr. Cholmondeley spends lots of time with Miss Godfrey, is all.  _ Mhmm.” _

 

James hums thoughtfully.

 

“You see too much, boy,” he says. “It’ll get you in trouble one day, you mark my words.”

 

“It won’t,” Robert says. “Because I only tell you what I see, and you won’t let anybody hurt me.”

 

“You’re sure of that?”

 

Robert nods.

 

“Yes. I am.”

 

They don’t talk after that, but James’ hand comes up to come the side of his head, pulling him tightly against his ribcage. Robert sighs and lets his eyes close, the steady pulse of James’ heart beating an odd, staccato rhythm under his ear.

 

Yes, Robert thinks he’s very happy.

  
  


*.*

  
  


He wakes up with a start, blood pounding in his ears. Sitting up, he finds Winter perched over his legs, mouth pulled into a flat, thin line.

 

“They’re coming,” she says. “Privateers, sent by the Company to kill James.”

 

And everyone else on board, no doubt.

 

Robert throws his legs over the edge of the bed, pulling on his slops and ignoring his shoes. He knows where James keeps his pistol, so he takes it, climbing up onto the deck as quietly as he can manage.

 

To the east, just over the horizon, Robert see the white sails of a ship. Clutching the pistol to his chest, he shivers.

 

“Can you do anything?” he whispers, eyes glued to the ship.

 

Winter steps up beside him.

 

“We can’t stray far from James,” she says. “But if they come closer, we can kill ‘em before they fire a cannon.”

 

Judging by the distance, they’ll be within firing range by dawn. Robert thinks Atticus ought to have noticed them already, but Atticus likes to sleep during night shift, and the gentle snores the hum from just behind the wheel of the ship tell him tonight’s no different.

 

Robert feels an unnatural chill against the back of his neck. He and Winter aren’t alone anymore. The other spirits have joined them.

 

Swallowing, Robert opens his mouth to speak.

 

“When they come, you will take their ship,” he says. He tries for James’ cool, authoritative tone, but he’s pleased enough when his voice doesn’t shake. “You will kill everyone on board and drop anchor. Whatever they carry, you will leave for us to take.”

 

There is no answer, and when Robert turns, he’s alone on the deck, save for Atticus, still asleep in a huddled pile of blankets and rope.

 

He takes a deep breath and settles himself at the base of of the mast, pistol cocked and pointing at the ship.

 

At dawn, he’ll know if the spirits obeyed. Until then, all he has to do is wait.

  
  


*.*

  
  


James wakes up alone. This isn’t particularly unusual— Robert often wakes early to help Pearl with breakfast. But something is strange, this time. The bed has long since gone cold, and the stench of blood hangs thick in the air.

 

He’s out of his bed in a moment, feet pounding on the wooden floors as he dread pools in his stomach. Something violent has happened, and Robert, Robert—

 

Robert is asleep at the mast, James’ pistol balanced on his knees and his head tipped back. Swallowing, he gently pries the pistol from the boy’s hands, careful not to wake him.

 

Clearly, something led to Robert’s current position, though Lord only knows what. James looks out to the horizon, eyes widening when he catches sight of the enemy ship.

 

“They’re all dead, James.”

 

Zilpha’s dress is wet with seawater and blood, her long hair pinned up as neatly as if she were in a lady’s house— her own house.

 

“Why?” he asks, throat tight when he looks at her.

 

Zilpha doesn’t answer, instead running red-wet fingers through Robert’s soft hair. The touch wakes him, eyes fluttering open against the morning sun.

 

“Wha—” He startles, jumping to his feet and casting no doubt for the pistol in his hands. “James!”

 

Robert barrels into him, arms wrapping around his middle and burying his face in James’ shirt.

 

Zilpha’s gone in a breath, but James can hear the others stirring, half-frightened by the commotion that woke them.

 

“What have you done, Robby?” he murmurs, one arm looping around the boy’s shoulders.

 

“The Company came,” Robert whispers. “They would have killed us.”

 

“I warned you,” James says, helpless. “I warned you to keep quiet, that day we met the Americans.”

 

Robert nods into James’ chest.

 

“I dreamt your head rolled across the deck,” he says. “I don’t—”

 

James’ shirt is wet. He supposes the boy has a right to cry. He’s revealed himself to James’ ghosts, now, and… well, he’s likely killed a full crew by proxy. He supposes that might be troubling for a ten year old.

 

Sighing to himself, he hooks an arm around the boy’s middle and lifts him into his arms.

 

“Atticus,” he calls, finally turning to the others. “Ready a boat. We’re boarding that ship,  _ ah-hah.” _

 

He gestures at the Company ship with a careless wave, one hand balancing Robert on his hip. Nobody moves, that first minute, frozen by… James doesn’t really care what. It isn’t until he moves, until he shoulders past Godders and makes his way below deck, that they start to scurry, Atticus making for the rowboats and the others pretending to help.

 

He sets Robert on the bed and pulls on his breeches and socks and toes on his shoes.

 

“You’re coming with me,” James says. “To the ship.”

 

Robert crosses his arms, unhappiness written plainly across his tearstained face.

 

“You will,” James repeats. “You need to see what you’ve done.  _ Mhmm, _ you do.”

 

“I’m scared,” Robert says. “They’re all covered in blood, now.”

  
“You had them do a bloody thing,” James says. “Come, Robby. You ought to see.”


	6. Chapter 6

The deck is sticky with blood and vomit when James pulls him aboard, the smell strong and stomach-turning. Robert does his best not to look frightened, smoothing out his mouth and squaring his shoulders like James always does. Atticus doesn’t bother to hide his fear; he vomits over the rails the moment he realizes what it is he sees.

 

James seems completely unbothered as he pulls Godfrey— sans his skirts— over the rail.

 

“Look for anything that might be useful,” he orders, ignoring Godfrey’s little gasp and fumblings for a handkerchief. “Robby, with me.”

 

Robert nods, following him below deck.

 

The stench of death is just as bad, in the crew’s quarters, but Robert does his best to stand firm.

 

“Check the cargo,” James orders. “I’m going to find the captain.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Privateers have all sorts of things in their cargo. Robert finds gold and silver, spices, fabric,  _ gunpowder, _ so much gunpowder.

 

James is pleased, of course, and promptly has them load everything onto the other ship when he reappears on the deck, most of a man dragging behind him.

 

“Robert, you’re staying with me a while longer,” he says in English, then switches to the African tongue. “You have something to learn about the dead.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


James scrubs a clean circle in the wooden deck and places the captain in the center. Kneeling at the corpse’s side, he gestures for Robert to mirror him.

 

“When you dance with the dead,” he grunts, drawing an old, sharpened bone from his pocket. “You must always pay for their work. You must give proper sacrifice.”

 

He slices neatly through the captain’s chest, reaching under his ribcage to tear out his heart. He offers it to Robert. Frightened, he takes it.

 

“Repeat after me,” James says. “Repeat everything exactly as I say.”

 

Robert does. The words are familiar and unfamiliar, rustling through the air as they leave his lips. James pulls handfuls of colored dust from his pockets, sprinkling them across the corpse and mixing it deep into his gut. His fingers come away rusty violet and orange, blood and dust and bile. When he reaches out to touch Robert’s face, he flinches.

 

James gives him a stern look, one that demands absolute stillness. Robert stays, eyes wide with fear and disgust as James draws the mixture across his cheeks. His voice is low and wraps around them like smoke, unsuited to the bright light of the setting sun.

 

There is a sudden, fierce hunger forming in Robert. He’s  _ starving, _ he doesn’t know why. He wants, he wants—

 

James’ eyes are black, pupiless, but Robert isn’t afraid. He isn’t anything at all, just…

 

The meat is warmed from the heat of the day, wet and raw and tough between his teeth,  A small part of him gags, repulsed, but the rest of him doesn’t care, ripping into the heart and swallowing until there’s nothing left but blood on his hands.

 

James says something else, something that sounds final, and suddenly, he’s exhausted.

 

Slumping to one side, he doesn’t twitch when James lifts him up over his shoulder and carries him back over the rail. He can’t think to speak, not until he’s huddled up in James’ coat and they’re halfway between ships.

 

“Guess the rumors are true,” he murmurs, feeling the cold brush of Winter’s fingers against his forehead.

 

“Hmm? Which ones?”

 

“You’re a cannibal.”

 

James hums, leaning forward so his face is nearly level with Robert’s.

 

“If that’s what I am,” he says softly. “What does that make you,  _ hmm?” _

 

Robert sighs, burrowing deeper into the sturdy black wool under his cheek.

 

“Doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he says. “Rumors haven’t reached America, I bet.”

 

James snorts, mouth splitting into an odd, toothy smile.

 

“You’re an odd duck, Robby,” he says, nodding. “Yeah. Just like the rest of us.”

 

_ “Mhmm.” _

  
  


*.*

  
  


Lorna is waiting when the Delaney boys climb back onto the ship, faces painted like wildmen. Robert— oh, God, Robert— looks half-mad, wrapped in James’ coat to the hems drag across the deck and mouth a red-rimmed grin as he chatters at James in that damned devil’s tongue.

 

“I was worried,” she says when they get close enough.

 

James grunts.

 

“We’re alright, Miss Lorna,” Robert chirps mouth turning sweet when he looks at her. His chin is brown with blood, leaving her torn between the urge to wipe his mouth and revulsion.

 

She forces herself to smile.

 

“There’s dinner downstairs,” she says. “Wash your face and Pearl might even heat it up for you.”

 

Robert nods, glancing up for James’ permissive nod before running towards the steps, coat flapping comedically behind him.

 

Lorna turns to James.

 

“You didn’t do what I think you did,” she says, mouth pinched and arms crossed.

 

“We did nothing that wasn’t expected of us,” James says. Somehow, that doesn’t make her feel better.

 

“Don’t get him involved in your…” Lorna struggles to find the word. “Your…   _ witchcraft. _ The boy has enough to worry about already, James.”

 

James leans back, spine bending into a question mark as he peers at her from under the brim of his hat.

 

“He’s involved himself, Lorna,” he says. “I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, now.”

 

Nodding to himself, he follows Robert downstairs, bow-legged gait slow and easy.

 

Lorna watches him go. She knows he won’t wash the paint off his face, knows he’ll scare the Holy Ghost out of Pearl just because he can when he goes to join Robert for dinner.

 

She wonders if Robert will keep his cheerful smiles and innocent eyes if he continues to tread in his father’s path. She wonders if James was ever like that, or if he was as somber and secretive as he is now. She likes to think he was. She likes to think Robert won’t turn into the same kind of monster James is, that he’ll stay the sweet little boy she thinks she’s come to love.

 

Sighing to herself, she gathers her skirts and goes to watch them eat. Maybe she’ll be able to convince James to let Robert move into her bedroom tonight. 

  
Just for tonight.


End file.
